Curulath
by Kelaria
Summary: With Legolas and Gimli presumed dead, a grieving Aragorn visits their burial site and discovers things are not as they appear...
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Aragorn looked out across the valley, at the grassy foothills nestled between the snow-capped mountains. The wind whipped his dark hair, and he held a hand over his eyes, shielding them against the harsh sun. It was mid summer, but the Gap of Ladhros was still covered in snow and ice, and his men had barely made it over the pass that day.

He had not seen this valley in many years, not since he was a young man traveling in these Northern lands, far to the East of the Lonely Mountain. The Letharii were a fiercely independent folk, long distrustful of Westerners, and King Medhras had been one of the few remaining rulers who had refused to swear allegiance to Gondor after the fall of Sauron.

But nature had not been kind to the Letharii in recent years, and this past winter when food was scarce and Medhras had refused to share his stores with the starving villagers, the people had stormed the castle and locked the king in his own dungeon. Aragorn had been called here to deal with the overthrown king and meet with the people of the valley who had asked for his protection.

The revolt had been led by an unlikely hero, a lame shepherd named Curulath, who lived outside the village in the foothills of Amon Leth. Aragorn was curious to meet this man, as songs of his bravery had already reached Minas Tirith. But another matter weighed more heavily on his heart, and as he looked across the valley, his gaze strayed from the old castle to the jagged mountains beyond, and he knew he could not sit at feast and celebrate with the Letharii before his other quest had been fulfilled.

"Haldan," he said, calling his captain nearer, "Go down to the village and prepare a feast for this evening. I will return at sundown." Haldan nodded respectfully and led the other men down the steep path, knowing what errand pressed so urgently in the King's mind. Aragorn watched them go, then mounted his horse and made his way along the side of the mountain to the North, toward the rocky crags in the distance.

He reached his destination by noon, and although the sun shone brightly and birds sang cheerfully in the trees, Aragorn shivered coldly, haunted by the sight before him. Once a sheer cliff face, the mountain had collapsed on itself, and all that remained was a pile of broken rocks. Aragorn hung his head, murmuring a quick prayer, and with a heavy heart he dismounted his horse and walked slowly to the grave.

For a grave it was. Two years ago he had received a letter from Legolas and Gimli, saying that they had crossed the Gap of Ladhros and were going to visit the abandoned Mine of Kaddaron. What had possessed them, Aragorn still did not know; he had seen the entrance to the mine years ago, and well remembered the Dwarvish runes carved in stone, warning Elves and Men not to enter upon pain of death. Apparently Gimli and Legolas had not heeded the warning, for the following Spring Aragorn had received the devastating news that his friends had been killed in the collapse.

He came to the edge of the ruins, then sank to his knees, weeping. The news of their death had come to him in the midst of a campaign against the Haradrim, and he had been forced to bury his grief and deal with the business at hand. But now it all came rushing back to him, and for the first time in two years he allowed himself to feel the pain, the anger, and the cruel injustice of this terrible and senseless loss. Gimli he had only come to know in recent years, but he had grown very fond of the Dwarf in their adventures together. Legolas, however, he had known since... forever, it seemed. The thought of his dear friend, one who should have been immortal, lying dead under these rocks because of some foolish daredevil quest, was more than he could bear.

Aragorn knelt there, alone in his grief, until the sun was low in the sky. Then he slowly got to his feet, said a final prayer, mounted his horse and rode down to the valley below.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Curulath, please!" Bran pleaded, following him into the cottage, carrying a heavy bucket of water. "Why won't you come to the feast? King Elessar will be there!"

Curulath looked at the boy, smiling fondly, with that faraway look in his blue eyes. Bran did not understand why Curulath was always so sad, but he had come to love him dearly over the past two years, especially since Bran's father had died of pneumonia the winter before. Now it was just the two of them living in the little cottage and tending sheep in the grassy foothills of Amon Leth, high above the village.

"I cannot go," Curulath said gently, helping the boy pour the water into the wash basin. "Come, let's get you cleaned up, you want to look your best for the King, don't you? And I'm sure Gwythara will be there too," he added with a playful wink. Bran shot an indignant look at Curulath, embarrassed. Gwythara was only seven, a year younger than Bran, and just a child - why should he care what she thought of him? But Curulath grinned back at him, tousling his hair playfully and then dunking his head into the water.

Sputtering, Bran stood up, shaking his head, flinging water everywhere. He attacked Curulath, pretending to be mad, but Curulath only laughed, and eventually Bran gave in, giggling as Curulath grabbed him, throwing a towel over his head and drying him off. "There, that's much better," Curulath said, combing Bran's hair back and looking at the boy critically, an approving twinkle in his eyes.

"But why can't you come?" Bran asked again, disappointed. He knew that Curulath mostly kept to himself and rarely went down to the village, but he had hoped that his friend would make an exception this time, and would come to see King Elessar.

"I have told you, I cannot," Curulath said simply. Bran opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it, knowing from experience that there was no point in arguing with Curulath. He was the gentlest, kindest person Bran had ever met, and although he was not a physically strong man, being slender of build and lame in one leg, there was nonetheless a quiet inner strength about him, and a deep sadness that Bran did not wish to provoke. He bowed his head respectfully, hiding his disappointment, and went to put on his best tunic.

He found Curulath again out on the hill, looking to the distant northern mountains beyond the castle. Curulath turned and smiled approvingly at him, and Bran grinned, not knowing whether to feel proud or embarrassed. "Well look at you," Curulath said, grinning enthusiastically as he hobbled toward Bran, leaning on his crutch. He looked the boy over critically one last time, straightened his tunic, then nodded, satisfied. "Now you're ready to meet the King," he said proudly, with an encouraging wink. "Remember your manners, and don't walk back alone, all right?"

Bran nodded, saying goodbye, and started down the hill path. He looked back once, and saw Curulath staring again to the north. Waving to his friend one last time, he turned and ran swiftly down the path to the village below, heart pounding with excitement.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Aragorn sat with his back to the cottage, contemplating the stars as he waited patiently for the voices inside to die down. He had secretly followed the boy home after the feast, disappointed that Curulath had not come, and was now more curious than ever to meet the famous shepherd of Amon Leth.

He had heard stories of his bravery sung at Minas Tirith and every town and village he had passed through on his way here. The bards of every court were singing the praises of Curulath, the brave warrior who had single-handedly stormed the castle, riding in on a winged horse, shooting flaming arrows and wielding a sword of pure Mithril, bringing justice to the starving people. Tonight at the feast he had finally heard the story as told by the local villagers, and he was not terribly surprised to learn that there had been no winged horse, no flaming arrows, and that Curulath's sword had in fact been rather beaten and rusty, and broken at the tip. Nor was he alone in his quest, but had led a small group of men on a bold but well-planned and highly successful campaign. In the end they had taken control of the castle with little bloodshed, and even the king's own guard had put up little resistance after Medhras was captured.

One part of the story remained the same, however: the Letharii confirmed that Curulath had organized the revolt, and had led them bravely into battle, fighting at their side with admirable skill and accuracy with the bow. Aragorn was also surprised to learn that he was not from these parts, and that no one seemed to know for sure where he came from, though most agreed that his home lay somewhere to the West. He had arrived at Amon Leth during the same winter that the old shepherd, Bran's father, had died, and had been looking after the boy ever since.

Now, inside the cottage he could hear Bran telling Curulath excitedly about the feast, giving him a blow-by-blow account of the evening's festivities and swearing by all the gods he knew that King Elessar was even greater in person than any of the legends had foretold. Aragorn did not speak fluent Eastern, but he understood most of what he heard, and smiled to himself, amused by the boy's enthusiasm. Curulath spoke little, but answered occasionally with good-natured indulgence. Eventually the conversation died down, and Aragorn guessed that the boy had fallen asleep. He stood up and chanced a quick look through the window.

Curulath sat alone by the fire, his back to Aragorn. He was a slender man, but tall, clad in the rough garb of the Eastern folk, with a plain headband encircling his brow. His shaggy hair fell nearly to his shoulders and glinted gold in the firelight. Not wanting to alarm him or awaken the boy, Aragorn tapped softly on the window sill. Curulath looked up, surprised, then bowed humbly, seeing Aragorn at the window. He came quietly to the door, slipping outside and motioning for Aragorn to follow him to the nearby hillside, a short distance from the cottage.

Aragorn followed, sobered to see Curulath's painful limp as he made his way along the path, leaning heavily on his crutch. This was the same man of whom legends were sung, who had led the Letharii into battle against the tyrant Medhras? He could barely walk, let alone fight! They reached the hillside and Curulath sat on the grassy slope, indicating for Aragorn to join him. He did not say a word, but bowed humbly, waiting for the King to speak.

"I missed you at the feast tonight," Aragorn said, the Eastern words coming to him with difficulty. "I had hoped to meet the man who overthrew my enemy, where I myself had long failed. Gondor owes you a great debt."

Curulath looked at the ground, self-conscious, his shaggy hair hiding his face. "I am honored to serve you, and Gondor," he said softly, carefully. "I apologize for my absence. I meant no offense."

"No offense was taken," Aragorn said gently, wishing he knew the right words to speak plainly with this man. "Is there anything I can offer you, in return for your loyalty and service?" He wished to invite Curulath to Minas Tirith, to visit the House of Healing, or at the least to see if by his own skill he could do anything to ease the man's pain. But he worried that such a suggestion would be taken as an offense, and remained silent.

Curulath shook his head. "There is nothing that I desire, though I thank you for your generosity," he said. "I wish only to live here in peace, and look after my sheep. And the boy," he added softly, with a tone of fondness and pride.

"He is a fine lad," Aragorn said thoughtfully.

For the first time, Curulath smiled, eyes glinting in the pale moonlight as he lifted his head to look out across the Eastern plains. "That he is," he agreed simply.

Aragorn followed his gaze, looking to the East. The moon was young, and he could make out very little in the darkness that night. "I see that you have found contentment in life, which is a gift greater than any I can give, and indeed one that few men ever know. But will you not at least accept a small reward, for the boy's sake?" he asked hopefully.

Curulath bowed his head humbly. "For the boy, I would gladly accept any gift. I am grateful for your kindness."

"Then I would give you this," Aragorn said, reaching into his cloak and pulling out a small but ornate clasp. "It was made by the Elven folk of Lorien. A gift from the Lady Arwen," he said, handing the clasp to Curulath.

"Thank you, my Lord," Curulath said humbly, taking the clasp and admiring it. "It is indeed beautiful. Bran will treasure it always."

Aragorn nodded, standing up. "I must return to the village; we ride out at first light. I am glad that we have spoken, and I wish you and Bran well," he said sincerely.

"Thank you, my Lord, for coming to Amon Leth, and for the gift," Curulath said formally, getting stiffly to his feet. "I wish you a safe journey home."

"Farewell, then, my friend," Aragorn said, taking his leave. "I hope that we will meet again one day. You will always be welcome at Minas Tirith." Curulath bowed, and Aragorn nodded respectfully, then headed back down the path to the village.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Four summers had passed since Aragorn's last visit to the Letharii. The time had passed quickly, as he had been busy with affairs in Gondor, and to the South. But he had found himself yearning to travel again, and had once more come to the Eastern lands.

As he looked out from the Gap of Ladhros across the green valley, he wondered once again what had drawn him to this place. There was no urgent business to attend to; he knew only that the sight of the grassy foothills nestled between the high mountains brought him a strange sense of peace. Even now, as he looked northward toward the ruined mine, he felt oddly comforted. Gimli and Legolas had lain there under the mountain these past six years, but in that time Aragorn's grief had slowly been replaced by fond memories of his friends and the many adventures they had shared together. He would visit their resting place once more before he left this valley; but first he would attend to the living. Murmuring a quick word of prayer, he turned again to the East, and headed down the path to the valley, calling for his men to follow.

Life in these northern hills had never been easy, but this past year had been particularly cruel to the Letharii, as they had been plagued by an outbreak of cholera. Aragorn had been dismayed to hear the news, and had immediately sent medicine and supplies, but alas, by the time they arrived, the first snows had already fallen, closing the Gap to visitors until the following spring.

Nothing more could be done that winter, and when spring came the news was grave. Over half the villagers had died, and the remaining survivors were gathered in two camps: one for those who showed no sign of illness, and another for the sick. Aragorn had been relieved to see Bran's name listed among the healthy but his heart had fallen when he learned that Curulath was among the afflicted. He had prayed that his aid had arrived in time, and that his friend might recover; for even though he had only spoken with the young shepherd once, he had always thought of him as a good man, and a kindred spirit.

As it turned out, Curulath had indeed survived, and in fact had never shown any sign of illness himself, but had selflessly stayed with the sick and cared for them through the harsh winter months. Aragorn was both relieved and vexed to hear this news, moved by Curulath's heroism, but angered that he had needlessly put himself in harm's way, especially when he had a young boy to care for. For despite Bran's enthusiastic praise of the great King Elessar, Aragorn knew it was Curulath that the boy worshipped most of all.

Aragorn and his men rode into the village, and were greeted with great enthusiasm by the people, who had gathered in the streets to welcome the King. He recognized some familiar faces in the crowd, and was glad to see that the villagers were still of high spirits despite the grave hardships they had faced. These were some of the sturdiest people Aragorn had ever met, having adapted to life in this harsh climate, and they were not easily defeated.

He waved now to a boy of perhaps twelve, then stared, grinning with surprise. The boy was dressed in a simple tunic, with an Elven clasp proudly pinned to his collar. "Bran," he called, and the boy waved back, ecstatic that the King had remembered his name. "I barely recognized you! How is Curulath?" he asked, smiling kindly.

"He is well, thank you, my Lord," Bran said excitedly. "He sends his greetings."

"Will he be at the feast tonight?" Aragorn asked, looking back at the boy, as he was pressed forward by the procession. He could not hear Bran's answer but saw him shake his head apologetically. Aragorn waved to him once more and continued on, greeting the excited villagers.

He had hoped to slip away that afternoon and pay a visit to Curulath before the feast, but the people had planned many festivities in Aragorn's honor, and he was unable to get away. The feast was merry, with much revelry and song, and once again he was amazed by the strength of these people in the face of adversity. Finally the celebration came to a close, and after saying goodnight to the villagers, Aragorn made his way up the moonlit path to the shepherd's cottage.

Curulath was waiting for him on the hill, and raised a hand in greeting as the King approached. Surprised, Aragorn waved in return and joined him on the grassy slope. "Greetings, Curulath," he said respectfully. "Once again, your presence was sorely missed," he added gently.

"Greetings, Lord Aragorn," Curulath said, with a humble bow of his head. "Once again, I did not intend any offense. I am glad that you have come."

"As am I," Aragorn said, looking out across the valley. The moon was full tonight, and cast a silvery glow on the village below. "It pleases me to be in this place again, and as always I am greatly inspired by the strength of the Letharii people."

"They do not give up easily," Curulath agreed.

"They?" Aragorn asked, raising an eyebrow. "I had heard that you were not from these parts," he said quietly, respectful of the man's private nature.

"That is true. My home lies to the West," Curulath said simply.

"And yet you have risked your life for these people, not once but twice now. I have heard what you did last winter. It was brave, but foolish," Aragorn said.

"It was neither, my Lord. I was never in danger, for I do not easily fall to illness," Curulath said humbly, bowing his head.

"It is not only for you that I am concerned, but for Bran," Aragorn reproached him gently. "I have seen how the boy looks up to you." Curulath looked away, saying nothing. "Curulath," Aragorn said quietly, "Why do you tempt fate? Why are you so eager to meet your death?"

Curulath stared out across the valley, and Aragorn feared he would not answer. He was about to apologize for his imposition, when Curulath spoke.

"Because it will not find me otherwise," he answered softly, speaking in Sindarin. "And I have grown tired of watching others die."

Aragorn stared, in shock. Curulath sat there, looking at the ground, his shaggy hair hiding his face, the plain headband tied so carefully across his brow... How could he not have seen it? Aragorn cursed himself. It had been very dark that first night, and he had taken pains to hide his face, but...

"I am a fool," Aragorn said softly, in Sindarin. "I should have known."

Curulath laughed slightly, though Aragorn still could not see his face clearly in the moonlight. "I had not expected to deceive you," he said regretfully.

"Curulath," Aragorn said, staring at him, at a loss for words. "Why?" he finally asked, trying to understand the reason for his disguise.

Curulath shook his head sadly. "I could not - " his voice faltered. "My name is not Curulath," he said wistfully.

"What is it, then?" Aragorn asked gently.

Curulath laughed softly. "For six years no one has thought to ask what 'Curulath' means in the Eastern tongue," he said, with a touch of sadness.

Aragorn thought about it. "Curu, green; Lath, leaf - " He stared at the Elf, heart pounding.

His hair was dirty, and cropped above his shoulders in the style of a man, but even so it glistened silver in the moonlight. Aragorn realized he had never properly seen his face. He reached out gently, turning the Elf's head toward him. Tears filled his eyes as he beheld the delicate, noble features of his old friend. "Legolas," he cried, pulling him close against his chest and holding him tight. After a long moment he forced himself to release his friend from his vise-like embrace. "I don't know whether to hug you, or strangle you," he said, laughing and crying all at once.

Legolas wept silently, laying his head on Aragorn's shoulder. "I am sorry," he said, sitting up. "I did not intend to deceive you, but I - " he broke off, shaking his head. "Gimli is dead." His voice was dull, without emotion.

"Yes," Aragorn said quietly. "But you are not! I have - All of Middle Earth has grieved your loss," he said softly, voice rough with emotion. "My heart rejoices to see you alive, and well! You are hurt," he realized, suddenly concerned for his friend's injury.

Legolas shrugged. "It does not pain me nearly as much as the grief in my heart," he said quietly.

"You were injured in the mine? There is much that our surgeons can do!" Aragorn suggested hopefully. Legolas nodded dully, as if it didn't matter. "Will you return with me to Minas Tirith?" Aragorn begged. "I cannot leave you here."

Legolas looked down, defeated. "I will return," he said quietly, "But not until the Spring. I will need time, to talk to Bran."

"He does not know?" Aragorn asked, incredulous, wondering how that could be possible. Legolas laughed ruefully, shaking his head. Aragorn sighed, nodding. "Well then I will look for you in the Spring," he said. "I have your word?"

Legolas nodded. "Yes," he said, "I will come in the Spring." They sat together on the hill until the sun came up; then Aragorn embraced his friend once more and took his leave, stepping lightly down the mountain path and whistling happily for the first time since he could remember.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Spring came to the valley, and the grassy foothills of Amon Leth were covered in wildflowers. Bran stood on the hillside, watching the young lambs frolicking playfully, and felt a twinge of regret, knowing that he would not see this place again for at least another year. Curulath had asked him one night during the past winter if he would like to travel to Minas Tirith and visit the lands of which many legends were told. Of course he did, and although he was sad to leave Amon Leth he was excited about seeing the world beyond the valley.

Hearing hoofbeats, Bran turned to see Curulath riding up the path, with a second mare following behind. "You got the horses!" Bran said excitedly, running to greet him. "They are beautiful," he added, in the Common tongue. Curulath had been teaching him this past winter, and the boy had learned quickly.

"Yes, they are fine animals, are they not?" Curulath said cheerfully, giving his mare an affectionate pat on the neck.

Bran nodded, admiring the beasts. His heart raced excitedly, realizing that they would soon be leaving on their adventure. The Gap was open, and Curulath had already made arrangements with a man from the village to look after the sheep in their absence. "When do we leave?" Bran asked.

"Tomorrow," Curulath said gently. "Come, the villagers have prepared a feast, to wish us farewell on our journey." Excited, Bran mounted his horse, and followed Curulath back down the path to the village.

The feast was merry, and Bran listened proudly to tales of Curulath's bravery against King Medhras, and there were many toasts to his health. The villagers were amazed at the young shepherd's change since King Elessar's last visit; it was indeed true that the King possessed the gift of healing, for Curulath had steadily recovered and now walked easily, with only a slight limp. He had been invited to Minas Tirith to visit the House of Healing, where the King's surgeons would reset the bones that had healed badly. Everyone was glad to see him feeling well again, but no one was more pleased than Bran.

They rode out the next morning, climbed to the Gap, and after a final look back across the valley, made their way down the steep mountain trail. They traveled through the forest until nightfall, and then made camp. "When will we come to the next village?" Bran asked, curious.

"The first village we will pass is Dale, by the Lonely Mountain," Curulath said. "But it is still several days' journey from here."

"Are there really Dwarves in the Lonely Mountain?" Bran asked. "Do you think we will see some? Or maybe Elves?"

Curulath laughed good-naturedly, amused by the boy's curiosity. "We might. The Dwarves rarely come out from under their mountain, but I think that we might see some Elves before our journey is through."

"Really?" Bran asked excitedly, "Have you ever seen one before?"

"Yes," Curulath said quietly, still smiling with amusement but with that far-away look in his eyes that he sometimes got.

"What are they like? Do they really have pointy ears?" Bran wanted to know.

"Ha," Curulath laughed, "Yes, they do." He stared into the fire. "They are not so different from Men," he added softly, almost to himself.

"Is it true that - " Bran stopped, embarrassed. Curulath gave him a questioning look, but Bran shook his head, looking down. He was going to ask if the stories he'd heard in the village were true, if Elves really stole babies, and kidnapped children who wandered off into the forest alone. But he did not want Curulath to think that he was afraid, so he said nothing.

Curulath stared at the fire, lost in thought. Bran stared too, and for the first time, here in the cold darkness, so far from his home, he felt fear. Fear of the unknown, and of the journey ahead. Back on Amon Leth, the thought of adventure had seemed so exciting, and he had never seriously considered the danger. But now he found himself yearning for the familiar grassy hillside, and the green valley below... Would he ever see his home again? Tears sprang to his eyes, and he felt a knot in his stomach.

"Bran," Curulath said gently.

Bran blinked away the tears, not wanting Curulath to see him crying. "Yes?" he said, as cheerfully as possible.

"There is something I must tell you," Curulath said. Bran nodded, still trying his best to maintain his composure. "You asked once, if we would be passing through my homeland on our journey," Curulath continued, choosing his words carefully. "I have not spoken of it before, but last Fall I sent word to my father, telling him that I would be returning in the Spring. He is expecting me, and in fact we might come upon some of my people, even here in these woods."

Bran smiled brightly, forgetting his fear. "This is good news," he said, "We are close to your home, then?"

"No, it is still many days' journey from here," Curulath said, smiling affectionately. "But there is something I need to tell you, about my people..."

"Yes?" Bran said hopefully. He had learned not to press Curulath on certain subjects, but was naturally very curious to learn where he was from, as it had always been somewhat of a mystery among the Letharii.

"I am from the Greenwood, also known as Mirkwood Forest," Curulath said carefully. "You have heard of it?"

Bran nodded, surprised. "I did not know anyone lived there, except for the Elves," he said, curious.

Curulath smiled. "That is true," he nodded.

"But your father lives there still?" Bran asked. "Is he not afraid of the Elf King?"

To Bran's surprise, Curulath laughed. "No," he grinned, "My father is probably the only person in Middle Earth who is NOT afraid of the Elf King. He is rather famous for his temper," he added ruefully.

"Then your father must be a very brave man," Bran said, impressed.

Curulath smiled, eyes twinkling. "Yes, he is," he agreed, "But not for that reason." He looked at Bran, searching his face as if trying to read the boy's thoughts. "Bran," he said gently, "my father is Thranduil, of Mirkwood. He IS the Elf King."

Bran burst out laughing, amused at the idea. He had always loved Curulath's sense of humor. "Ha! Well no wonder you always wear that silly headband," he teased, switching momentarily to the Eastern speech, "Gotta cover up those pointy ears somehow, eh?" He grinned at Curulath, delighted at his own joke.

But Curulath was not laughing, and Bran's grin slowly faded. Curulath had that strange look in his eyes again, and his expression was serious. "I'm sorry," Bran said in Common, not sure if Curulath was offended by the joke or reprimanding him for slipping into his native tongue... Or both, perhaps? Curulath did not often show disapproval and it made Bran feel suddenly uncomfortable.

"You don't believe me," Curulath said softly, in Eastern.

"What, about you bein' a Swlfaru?" Bran laughed cheerfully, using the Eastern word for 'Elf'. He gave Curulath an impish grin.

Curulath nodded, with a gentle but serious look in his eyes.

"All right, I believe you," Bran shrugged amiably, looking into the fire. "I'm a Hobbit," he added playfully, giggling.

At that, Curulath laughed, tousling Bran's hair. "No, you are already much too big to be a Hobbit," he said affectionately.

"Do you think we'll see any Hobbits on our journey?" Bran asked excitedly, the thought suddenly occurring to him.

Curulath grinned. "Perhaps. You are changing the subject," he chided gently.

Bran laughed. "Oh, will you stop with that!" He reached for Curulath's headband. "Here, let's have a look at those pointy ears," he teased playfully, pulling it off. Instantly his grin was gone, and he stared in horror, heart pounding.

"Bran," Curulath said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. Bran shrank back, terrified.

"No," he cried, backing away, as the Elf advanced upon him. "No!" He got up and ran blindly through the forest, tripping over roots and fallen trees as he desperately tried to escape. His heartbeat was almost deafening, but he could hear the Elf pursuing him, calling his name. He ran on, not feeling the cuts and scrapes as the tree branches lashed against his skin. Then there was a thud, and darkness.

Bran realized he was on the ground, and tried to get up, but it was too late. Sinister, claw-like hands were already gripping him, holding him down. "No," Bran moaned, struggling to his feet. His head throbbed painfully, but he fought desperately against his attacker, driving an elbow into his ribs, kicking him in the shins, and stomping on his foot.

"Ow!" the Elf said, letting go. "All right, you win! Truce!" Bran was about to knee his assailant in the stomach, but he stopped, seeing his confused expression. He backed away, not taking his eyes off the Elf, and leaned against a tree, fighting dizziness. "Bran, are you all right? You're hurt!" The Elf quickly approached.

"No!" Bran said hotly, "You stay away from me!" He staggered backwards, reeling from the pain in his head.

The Elf stood its ground, but bowed its head respectfully. "Bran, I am sorry. I should have told you before, I meant to, but - "

"You are a Swlfaru," Bran said angrily. "You are taking me to your Swlfaru King. You have been planning this all along," he choked, betrayed.

The Elf cocked its head and looked confused. "If you do not wish to go - "

"No, I do not wish to go," Bran seethed, clenching his teeth.

The Elf looked sad, but nodded. "And Minas Tirith?"

Bran looked away, fighting tears, not knowing what to believe any more. "I wish to go home," he said, sounding more childish than he intended to.

"Then we shall return in the morning," the Elf said gently. "Bran, you are right to be angry, I should have told you long ago, but I feared... I feared this," it said, voice full of sadness.

Bran hung his head. He knew he should try to escape, but to where? The night was dark and cold, there were wolves in the forest, and he did not know the way home. He didn't even have a home any more, not without Curulath. So this is how they did it, he realized glumly. They got you to trust them first, and then they kidnapped you. He felt stupid for falling into the Elf's trap; but worse, he didn't even want to run. He wanted desperately to believe that Curulath still loved him, and that their friendship these past six years had not been a cruel lie. Tears stinging his eyes, he held a hand to his throbbing head, and sank slowly down to the ground, his back against the tree trunk.

He felt the Elf's arms around him, and its delicate fingers felt strangely soothing against his bruised forehead. "I'm sorry, Bran," it whispered softly.

Bran was too tired to struggle. "You can take me to your Elf King," he cried quietly, defeated. "I don't care."

The Elf held him close, kissing him tenderly on the forehead and gently stroking his hair. "It's all right," it whispered again, "I'm sorry." Then it gathered the trembling boy in its arms and laid him beside the fire, covering him with its cloak and watching over him until the sun came up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Bran awoke to the sound of birds singing in the trees. The sun was already high in the morning sky; the forest air smelled fresh and invigorating. Curulath was saddling the horses nearby, preparing for the day's journey. Bran sat up, and felt a dull ache in his head.

"Good morning," Curulath said, with an affectionate grin. "I was wondering if you would ever wake up! How are you feeling?" he asked gently, with a concerned look in his kindly eyes.

"I'm all right," Bran said, blinking awake. Then he remembered.

It wasn't Curulath. He no longer wore the headband, and his shaggy hair did nothing to hide his ears. Bran's heart sank, and he felt sick to his stomach.

"Here, have some breakfast," Curulath said cheerfully, handing him a muffin that one of the women from the village had baked for their journey. "We must leave soon if we are to reach the Gap before sundown," he added gently.

Bran shook his head. "I'm not hungry." He felt a reassuring pat on his shoulder, and stiffened, but did not move.

"Then we'll put it in your pack for later," Curulath said good-naturedly, picking up his cloak and walking back toward the horses. "Come, we must be going." Reluctantly, Bran trudged across the clearing and climbed onto his horse, not looking at Curulath.

They set out eastward along the forest trail, back the way they had come. Bran followed quietly, trying to make sense of what was happening. Curulath was taking him back to Amon Leth, and was not delivering him to the Elf King. Bran realized that Curulath could easily have taken him by force, not just last night but at any time over the past six years. But he had never attempted to do so; in fact he had never treated Bran with anything other than love and kindness.

And now he was leaving. Bran knew that Curulath would not stay among the Letharii, but would continue on his journey. Tears sprang to the boy's eyes as he realized he might never see his friend again. Especially after the way he had behaved last night. No wonder Curulath was taking him home; he was probably glad to be rid of him. Bran sniffed quietly, wiping away his tears.

Hearing him, Curulath looked back, then slowed his horse, falling in beside Bran. "Are you all right, Little One?" he asked in Eastern, with a sad but tender smile.

Bran nodded, fighting tears. "I'm sorry," he choked, miserable.

"No, it is I who am sorry," Curulath said gently. "Bran, you have done nothing wrong. I should have told you long ago. I hope that one day you can forgive me."

Bran hung his head. "You're leaving, aren't you?" he asked tearfully.

"Yes," Curulath said sadly. "My place is not among the Letharii."

"Will I ever see you again?" He looked at the Elf, suddenly realizing how beautiful he was, pointy ears and all.

Curulath smiled lovingly at the boy, his blue eyes glistening with tears. "Yes," he said, "I shall visit as often as I can. I shall miss you terribly," he cried sorrowfully.

Bran bit his lip, chin trembling. "Curulath," he asked, his voice barely a whisper, "Can I come with you?"

The Elf reined in his horse, head bowed, and Bran stopped beside him. There were tears in Curulath's eyes, but his smile was full of joy. He nodded happily, unable to speak for a moment. "King Elessar would be most disappointed if you did not come," he said with mock formality, eyes twinkling. "And my father is not nearly as bad-tempered as they say," he added with an apologetic grin. Bran laughed, forgetting his fear, and a wave of relief and joy washed over him, rekindling his excitement for the journey ahead.

"Your father is really a king?" he asked, incredulous, as they turned around and headed back the other way.

Curulath laughed, amused. "Yes."

"So - you are a prince?" was Bran's next question. "Should I call you 'Your Majesty' then?" he giggled playfully.

"Yes," Curulath said haughtily, "And you shall bow down to me and kiss the ground I walk on," he added, with a good-natured grin.

Bran laughed, delighted. Then a new thought occurred to him. "Will you be the Elf King one day?"

Curulath grinned cheerfully. "Not unless my father dies, which does not seem likely," he said, eyes twinkling. "No, I do not think that is my destiny."

"So it is true, that Elves live forever?" Bran asked, amazed.

"Yes," Curulath said, "We can be killed in battle, but we do not fall to sickness, nor do we grow old."

Bran thought about that. "So you will always look the same as you do now? Even when you are a hundred years old?"

Curulath smiled, amused. "Yes. Even then." He waited for the next question.

"How old are you now?"

Curulath told him, and Bran's jaw dropped. "That is - that is older than - than anything in the world," he said, wide-eyed with disbelief.

Curulath smiled affectionately. "It is not old, for an Elf," he said quietly.

"So - when I am old, you will not be any different?" Bran asked. Curulath shook his head, and Bran thought he saw a tinge of sadness in the Elf's eyes. Knowing that look, he thoughtfully changed the subject.

"Is it true that your father kidnaps children and locks them in his dungeon?" he asked with feigned innocence, hoping that this was indeed a ridiculous myth and would make his friend laugh. He was not disappointed.

"Where did you hear that?" Curulath asked, horrified and amused at the same time.

"I don't know," Bran shrugged apologetically, "In the village I guess."

Curulath shook his head sadly. "No, it is not true. But," he added, with a dangerous twinkle in his eyes, "there is a first time for everything!"

Bran laughed, then looked down, embarrassed. "When you told me you were - last night... That's what I thought," he apologized shyly.

"Ha!" Curulath laughed. "Well that explains much!" He shook his head, smiling fondly at the boy. "There is something else I must tell you," he said gently, "But you must promise not to run off again!" he reproached cheerfully. Bran nodded, with an apologetic but hopeful smile.

"You know of the ruined mine, beyond the castle? You have heard what happened there?"

"Yes, that's where Legolas and Gimli - " the boy broke off, sadly. He had heard many tales of their bravery and mourned their loss, as did all of the Letharii.

"It is true, that Gimli - that Gimli lies buried under those rocks," Curulath said, with great difficulty. "But Legolas escaped," he continued, searching Bran's face for comprehension.

"He escaped?" Bran asked, amazed. "You know this? This is good news! What happened to him?"

Curulath smiled affectionately at the boy. "He found a passageway out to the Northern side of the mountain, and made his way Eastward toward Amon Leth. It was the middle of winter, and his leg was badly broken, but just as he reached the end of his strength, he saw a shepherd's cottage, on the hillside..."

Bran stared at his friend, tears filling his eyes. "You're Legolas," he whispered, awestruck.

Legolas nodded. "Yes," he said gently. "Now you promised not to run away!" he teased the boy cheerfully, with an impish grin. Bran laughed, crying at the same time, heart pounding with amazement. He felt that he should bow down to the Elf, for he was a great hero, a legendary Elven warrior prince...

"Come," said Legolas. "It is almost noon and we are not even back to where we started. My father is not a patient man; if we take much longer we shall both be thrown into his dungeon," he winked cheerfully. "Shall we ride?"

Bran nodded, still smiling with excitement and awe. Legolas took off like the wind, and Bran followed, galloping as fast as his horse would take him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

They had been traveling for several days now, and the terrain had grown increasingly hilly as they headed ever westward. Reaching the top of a steep ravine, Legolas halted, and Bran sighed with relief, already exhausted from the day's journey. They dismounted, and Bran gratefully sat down to rest while Legolas, energetic as ever, climbed up the rocky ledge to have a look around.

"Bran, come," Legolas called cheerfully, peering down from above. "I want to show you something." Getting wearily to his feet, Bran clambered up the steep ledge, panting heavily in the hot afternoon sun. He reached the top and followed the Elf's gaze toward the West, where he saw a craggy peak in the distance. "Erebor," Legolas said, "The Lonely Mountain. We will reach Dale by evening." Bran smiled happily at the sight, and Legolas grinned affectionately, giving the boy an encouraging pat on the shoulder before hopping lightly down to the trail below.

After a short rest, they set out again along the forest path, and the thought of a home-cooked meal and soft bed gave Bran renewed strength. They had not traveled long before Legolas halted again, head cocked as if listening to something. Bran stopped as well, and heard a strange bird call in the distance. To his surprise, Legolas returned the call, mimicking the bird's song with perfect accuracy.

Now he's talking to birds, Bran thought with amusement. Since their journey began he had learned a great deal about Elves, but still he had never ceased to be surprised by his friend's behavior. He looked tentatively upward into the treetops as he waited patiently for Legolas to finish his conversation with his new feathered friend.

"This way," Legolas grinned cheerfully, heading off the trail to the left, then dismounting and guiding his horse carefully through the thorny underbrush. Following suit, Bran peered upward into the trees one last time, wondering what kind of bird it had been.

Suddenly he gasped, alarmed, as a tall figure stepped out from behind a nearby tree. Heart racing, his hand quickly moved to the dagger at his belt. He froze, stunned, when he saw the newcomer.

It was an Elf. His flaxen hair was long and straight, and he was dressed neatly in muted shades of green and brown, with a wooden bow and quiver of arrows across his back. He bowed formally to Legolas, and said something that Bran could not understand. Legolas smiled, clasping the Elf's forearm in greeting, and replied in the same strange language.

The Elf then looked at Bran, eyebrow raised, and with a friendly nod Legolas motioned for him to step forward. "This is Bran, son of Mab, of the Letharii," he said in Common, with a tone of formal respect. "Bran, this is Telsir of Mirkwood." The Elf bowed respectfully to Bran, who suddenly realized with embarrassment that he still clutched his dagger. Letting go of the hilt, he bowed nervously, momentarily unable to remember a single word of Common.

"Welcome, Bran of the Letharii," Telsir said formally.

"Thank you," Bran said politely, his wits finally returning. Telsir nodded respectfully, then turned again to Legolas. They spoke for a while in their strange tongue, then clasped arms again. "Farewell, and a safe journey," Telsir called to Bran, and the boy thanked him again, waving goodbye as he followed Legolas back to the forest trail.

They rode on in silence, and Bran did not question Legolas about the meeting, sensing that his friend was troubled. Presently the trail split into two paths, and to Bran's surprise, Legolas did not continue westward toward Dale, but instead turned to the South. Bran followed, trusting the Elf's knowledge, but his instincts told him they were going the wrong way.

"Do you think the inn will have feather pillows?" he asked cheerfully, hoping to lighten his friend's somber mood. Legolas looked back, smiling affectionately, but there was a tinge of sadness in his eyes.

"We are not going to Dale," he said regretfully. "It seems that in my absence my father and the Mountain King have rekindled their old feud, and Elves are no longer welcome at Erebor. The bridge to Dale passes too close to the Dwarves' front gate, and Telsir warned me not to go there," he explained sadly.

"Why are they feuding?" Bran asked, concerned.

Legolas shook his head sadly. "I am not sure if even they know the answer to that question. Elves and Dwarves have long mistrusted each other, but in recent years they have learned to put aside their differences. Alas, I fear I am responsible for this renewed animosity."

"You?" Bran asked, confused. "How can that be?"

"The Mountain King blames my father for Gimli's death, and my father in return blames him for mine," Legolas explained sadly. "When in fact neither of them had anything to do with it," he added with a regretful sigh.

"That is not your fault!" Bran said indignantly, in his friend's defense.

Legolas smiled appreciatively at the boy, but there was still sadness in his eyes. "Bran, if anyone is to blame, it is I," he said quietly. "I had hoped to visit the Lonely Mountain and pay my respects to the Mountain King, for Gimli was his kinsman; but my father has forbade it, and I dare not disobey his counsel until I have seen him first," he finished.

"I still say it is not your fault," Bran sulked.

The Elf broke into an amused grin, a spark of joy returning to his eyes. "And for that I am exceedingly glad," he said warmly, with a tender smile. "Once again, I must ask your forgiveness, for I fear you will not have your feather pillow tonight." Bran smiled, shrugging good-naturedly, and followed his friend along the path.

They made camp at dark, and the next morning they crossed the river at Esgaroth. Then, turning northward they made their way toward the Elf King's home. The forest grew suddenly thicker, and the trees loomed dark and foreboding above Bran's head, even in the mid-day sun. But Legolas looked about happily as they rode through Mirkwood, a peaceful smile on his face.

Presently they heard hoofbeats in the distance, and Legolas looked back at Bran, grinning. A minute later six Elves came galloping down the path toward them. Legolas reined in, and the Elves halted, dismounting lightly and greeting their long-absent Prince with great excitement, embracing him happily and chattering away in their strange language. Legolas introduced them good-naturedly to Bran, spouting off a list of unpronounceable names that the boy had no hope of remembering. But they were a friendly bunch, and a few of them hung back to chat with Bran in Common as they all rode together to Thranduil's hall.

At last they reached the palace, and crossed the wooden bridge, passing between two ancient beech trees and entering through the great stone doors. The Elves still talked cheerfully amongst themselves, and Bran followed them through the dimly-lit tunnels, wondering why Elves hated Dwarven mines and dark places, when in fact their own King lived in an underground cave.

Finally they entered the great hall, a high cavern supported by stone pillars. Bran looked around in awe, and the other Elves fell silent as Legolas approached his father's throne, trying his best to look dignified despite his rough clothing, unkempt hair, and stiff limp. Kneeling gracefully on one knee, he bowed before the Elf King, murmuring something softly in Elvish.

Thranduil touched his son's shoulder, and Legolas stood up, keeping his head respectfully bowed as he spoke with the King. Bran did not know what they were saying, but Thranduil's tone was stern and disapproving, while Legolas spoke with quiet deference. Eventually the King's gaze fell upon Bran, and he squirmed nervously as Legolas introduced him with respectful formality.

"Come, Bran, son of Mab, of the Letharii," Thranduil commanded, and Bran approached the throne, heart racing. The King was dressed in the style of the other Elves, but his clothes were richer in color and texture. He also wore a long cape, and a crown of woodland flowers adorned his flaxen hair. Bran bowed before him as he had seen Legolas do. "Welcome to Mirkwood," the Elf King said solemnly.

"Thank you, your Royal... Majestyness," Bran said, terror gripping him as he realized that wasn't quite right. To his surprise, Thranduil laughed heartily, and when Bran dared to look up he saw a humorous twinkle in the King's eye that reminded him of Legolas. Bran cringed apologetically, and Legolas put a hand on his shoulder, grinning with amusement.

"We are honored that you have journeyed so far to visit our realm, and hope that you enjoy your stay," Thranduil said, in a warmer tone. "Legolas will show you to the upper chambers where you can rest until the feast tonight." Bran bowed again, thankful that he hadn't been sent immediately to the dungeons, and followed Legolas out of the great hall to the upper chambers.

"That wasn't so bad, now was it?" Legolas asked cheerfully, showing Bran into a brightly-lit chamber. The late afternoon sun streamed in through the window, and Bran was amazed to see a bed with rich coverings and more feather pillows than he could count. His clothes had already been laid out, and the bath was filled with steamy water. Bran stared, speechless, and Legolas grinned. "Try to clean up a bit; I shall return before the feast," he said light-heartedly, tousling the boy's dirty hair and closing the door with a friendly wink as he left the chamber.

Bran climbed into the bath, smiling blissfully as the warm water soothed his travel-weary muscles. A sweet scent wafted up from the surface, and he closed his eyes, relaxing peacefully. He had been terribly wrong about Thranduil, he realized; now he found himself wishing he could stay here more than just one night.

The sun was casting its last golden rays across the chamber when Bran finally summoned the will to climb out of the bath. He put on his best tunic, looking into the long mirror with great curiosity. Of course he had seen one before in the village, but it was nonetheless fascinating to watch his own reflection, and he made a silly face, giggling at himself.

Hearing another amused laugh, he turned to see Legolas in the doorway. "I was just - " he broke off, embarrassment quickly giving way to awe as he stared at the Prince. He was dressed in a fine tunic of blue and grey, and his flaxen hair fell neatly to his shoulders, ornamented with intricate braids. Bran was suddenly conscious of his own rough appearance.

"Come, the feast is starting," Legolas said cheerfully. "Look at you, that's much better!" he added fondly, with an approving twinkle in his blue eyes. Smiling excitedly, Bran followed him down to the great hall.

Bran enjoyed the feast tremendously. The food was delicious, and several of the Elves were gracious enough to speak to him in Common, and were very curious to learn about his homeland. But most of all he loved the music. He could not understand any of the words, but the haunting melodies brought tears to his eyes, and as he fell asleep that night on his feather pillows, he could still hear the beautiful Elven songs in his head.

The next morning they set out, and Bran was sad to leave. He waved goodbye to Thranduil and the other Elves, then followed Legolas over the bridge and down the forest path to the South. Legolas was now dressed in the traditional green and brown colors of the Mirkwood Elves, with a new bow and quiver of arrows across his back.

"Your home is very beautiful," Bran said wistfully as they left.

"Yes, it is," Legolas agreed cheerfully. "So now you have met the terrible Elf King, who delights in locking prisoners in his dungeon," he teased the boy with a playful grin. Bran laughed, realizing how foolish he had been to believe Thranduil was capable of such atrocities. Legolas had shown him the famous dungeons before they left, and they were indeed empty, as they had been for years.

Thranduil watched from the bridge until they were out of sight, his stern face looking unusually thoughtful, his blue eyes glistening softly. Then, taking his leave of the other Elves, he retreated to his private chambers. Closing the door, he pulled aside a bookcase, revealing a secret passageway. He walked quickly along the winding tunnel, stopping at the very end and opening a door with his key. "Follow me," he said curtly.

The prisoner obeyed, surprised. As he followed the Elf King through the underground tunnels, he wondered where he was being taken. To his death, most likely, he realized. And no one would ever know. Six years ago he had come to Thranduil in private, begging his forgiveness. Six years he had been locked in a secret cell far beneath the palace. Not even his own death could repay the grievous debt he owed; but still he had always known this day would come.

Thranduil led him down to the distant water-gate, where a small boat was moored. "Get in," he said quietly. The prisoner obeyed, and after making sure they were not being watched, Thranduil silently paddled the boat across to the Eastern bank, where he commanded the prisoner to climb ashore.

"You are free to go," he said unexpectedly. "Return to your home and tell your King that our feud is over."

Blinking in the bright morning sun, the prisoner watched in disbelief as the Elf King retreated to the Western bank. Then he quickly set out toward the East, as fast as his short legs would take him. _Return to my home... To my King..._

He stopped abruptly, Thranduil's last words echoing in his head. _To my King..._ With a final look toward the Lonely Mountain, he turned to the South and headed toward Gondor.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Bran plodded along behind Legolas through the endless forest. They had traveled many days since their visit to Thranduil, and had long since passed out of Mirkwood, but still the trees continued. Now they picked their way slowly along the foothills of the Emyn Muil, on the Eastern side of Anduin.

He had learned not to question Legolas about his choice of route. A few days back he had asked if there was any part of Middle Earth that was NOT a forest, and Legolas had cheerfully explained that they could travel farther to the West through the Brown Lands, or to the East through the Dead Marshes. Neither of those options had sounded very tempting, and so Bran was content to follow his Elven friend through the endless woodland paths.

Legolas looked back at him now, and slowed his pace, falling in beside Bran with a concerned look on his kindly face. "How are you holding up?" he asked gently, seeing the boy's exhaustion.

"I'm all right," Bran said bravely, as usual, though he longed for rest.

"Can you ride for another hour?" Legolas asked. "There is a place not far from here, by the river, that I think you would like to see. We can rest there." Bran nodded agreeably, looking forward to seeing something other than the forest. They continued along the hillside path, and presently Legolas led them to the bank of the river Anduin.

Grateful for the rest, Bran dismounted and climbed down to the rocky shoreline, kneeling at the edge of the river and splashing the icy cold water over his face. He lifted his head, feeling refreshed. Then his heart skipped a beat as he looked across the river.

On the opposite bank stood an enormous statue of a man, carved into the side of the cliff. The sheer immensity of the figure was staggering, and Bran scrambled atop a nearby ledge to get a better look. The statue faced upriver, holding a hand out as if in warning.

Bran looked back at Legolas, wide-eyed with amazement. "What is that?" he asked, incredulous.

Legolas grinned at him, deeply amused. "The Argonath," he said "We have reached Gondor."

"We are in Gondor? You did not tell me we were so close! What is an Argonath?" he asked inquisitively.

Legolas laughed cheerfully. "The Pillars of the Kings. They stand watch over the northern borders."

"They? There are others?" Bran asked, climbing farther up the smooth stone ledge and leaning against the vertical rock face, peering farther down the river. He turned again to look down at Legolas, curious.

Legolas stood on the river bank below, laughing with great amusement. "Yes, there are two," he said, eyes twinkling merrily. Bran looked up and down the river but still could only see the one King. "I should add that you are in Gondor; I am not," Legolas said good-naturedly. Puzzled, Bran looked down, wondering if the smooth ledge he stood on somehow marked the border of Gondor. It was then that he noticed the ledge had toes.

Gasping, he jumped down, scrambling a safe distance away before daring to look upon the second King. Legolas grinned, patting him on the shoulder. "Come, we shall reach Amon Lhaw and camp with Lord Faramir's sentinels this evening." With a final look at the Kings of old, Bran followed the Elf back up to the trail, and they continued southward along the river.

* * *

><p>The sun was low in the sky as Cadal scanned the northern countryside from his post atop Amon Lhaw. Three weeks ago he had received a message from Lord Faramir to watch for travelers from the North, by order of King Elessar himself. Apparently the King was expecting a visitor of some importance, for Cadal's orders were to escort his guest across the river to Amon Hen and then down the North Stair, where a ship awaited him just beyond the Falls of Rauros. He hadn't said who the visitor would be; only that Cadal would recognize him by name. There had been much speculation among the guards as to the identity of the mysterious traveler, and Cadal had his hopes set on Curulath, the Warrior-Shepherd of Amon Leth of whom he had heard many extraordinary tales.<p>

A movement caught his eye, along the forest trail by the river. Cadal was a distant relative of Lord Faramir, and the blood of Numenor ran in his veins, giving him keener vision than that of most Men. Looking closer, he could make out two figures on horseback. One was a Mirkwood Elf, and the other appeared to be human; a boy, judging by his size. He wore the rough garb of a commoner, and Cadal guessed that these were not the King's expected visitors. Nevertheless, he called down to the guard and sent riders to meet the travelers; in any case they would offer safe quarters for the night and question them for news from the North. After a final scan of the Emyn Muil, Cadal resigned his post for the night and went down to greet the newcomers.

* * *

><p>"Is he here?" Where is he?" Merry asked breathlessly, bursting into the King's private chamber with Pippin at his heels.<p>

"Greetings to you as well," Aragorn said formally, eyes twinkling with amusement. "I trust your journey was a safe one?"

"Yes, we came straight from the Shire, just as you asked," Pippin said. "Didn't stop anywhere along the way, did we Merry?"

"No, we camped the entire way," Merry confirmed. "Is he here yet?"

"Not yet. But I expect his arrival any day now," Aragorn replied.

"I shall be glad to see him," Pippin said. "Imagine that, pretending to be a shepherd," he laughed, and Merry joined in, delighted.

"Yes, I'm sure he will have an interesting tale to tell when he arrives," Aragorn said. "And I must apologize for the secrecy of my letter, but I wanted to have some time alone with him before the news of his arrival spreads," he added appreciatively.

"Of course, Strider, we understand completely," Merry said. "We didn't tell a soul."

"Not a word," Pippin declared solemnly.

Thanking them politely, Aragorn watched with quiet amusement as they exited the room. Then he smiled broadly, confident that all of Middle Earth had been alerted of the news and would soon be arriving at Minas Tirith to welcome Legolas home.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Bran stood at the bow of the ship, leaning out over the rail and watching the scenery go by as they sailed down Anduin toward Minas Tirith. The sun shone brightly on his face, the wind whipped his hair, and he smiled with excitement as he realized their journey was nearly at its end. They had just passed the island of Cair Andros, and now a sparkle of white caught his eye in the distance.

"Legolas!" he cried excitedly, "Is that it?"

The Elf grinned good-naturedly down from his perch atop the sail. "That is Osgiliath," he said, a hint of sorrow in his voice. "But we are nearly there," he added, with an encouraging wink.

As they drew closer, Bran suddenly understood his friend's sadness, for the city lay in ruins. His heart ached with regret as they passed, and he was grateful to feel a comforting hand on his shoulder. Legolas stood beside him, looking straight ahead, a peaceful smile on his face. Following his gaze, Bran gasped in amazement as he beheld Minas Tirith.

The White City rose high on the hillside before him, glistening in the sun. At the very top of the citadel stood a great watch tower, and the banner of King Elessar waved proudly in the wind. Heart racing, he grinned excitedly at Legolas, and watched in awe as they approached.

Reaching the bridge, they disembarked and rode up to the Great Gate. It was already open, and the people of Minas Tirith lined the streets, cheering and welcoming them as the palace guards accompanied them up the winding streets to the citadel. Bran looked around in disbelief, and Legolas grinned good-naturedly, waving cheerfully to the crowds as they passed. At last they reached the upper stables, where they dismounted and were led through a stone tunnel to the citadel.

The tunnel opened into the upper courtyard, and Bran stood frozen in wonder, surrounded by the most beautiful gardens he had ever seen. Directly before him was a graceful fountain, and beyond that stood the majestic Silver Tree. The white tower rose high above his head, and the King's palace sparkled in the sun. Heart pounding with amazement, Bran turned to Legolas, grinning happily.

But Legolas was no longer beside him; for he was already at the palace gate, and King Elessar was embracing him with such enthusiasm that Bran worried the Elf's ribs would be crushed. Bran waited respectfully by the fountain, but presently Legolas called to him, waving for him to join them.

"Welcome, Bran," Aragorn said with a warm smile, speaking in Eastern. "I am greatly pleased that you have come! It is good to see you again," he added, eyes twinkling fondly.

"Thank you, my Lord," Bran said in Common. "The White City is more beautiful than I could ever have imagined," he added breathlessly, as amazed as anyone that the words had come out properly. Impressed, Aragorn bowed respectfully, then shot a surprised glance at Legolas, who was beaming proudly at the boy. Bran smiled with shy appreciation, following them into the palace.

That evening there was a festive celebration, and Bran was amazed to see many of the great heroes he knew from song and legend. Lord Faramir was there, with Eowyn his wife, and even King Eomer had come from Rohan. Bran was delighted to meet Merry and Pippin, and blushed shyly as he received a kiss on the forehead from Queen Arwen. He still wore the Elven clasp she had given him years ago, though tonight he was dressed in the ceremonial style of the men of Gondor.

Many of the young girls looked upon him with great admiration, and he smiled shyly at them, embarrassed by the attention but deeply touched by the warm welcome bestowed upon him by the people of Minas Tirith. Even among the Letharii he had always been somewhat of an outsider, and for the first time in his life he felt a sense of belonging. Tears sprang to his eyes as he realized he had come home.

* * *

><p><em>"Roll - roll - roll - roll,<br>roll-roll-rolling down the hole!  
>Heave ho! Splash plump!<br>Down they go, down they bump!"_

Bran laughed until the tears came. In all the years they had known each other, he had never seen Legolas look so embarrassed. Merry and Pippin were reading to him from Bilbo's book, and they had just reached the part about the merry Wood-elves. "Do you really sing that song?" he asked the Elf, laughing hysterically.

Legolas lay in bed, propped up against the pillows with his hands over his pointy ears, looking as if he wished to be anywhere but here in the House - no, the Prison of Healing, trapped in a small room with two Hobbits and a giggling human boy. "I fear its meaning is lost in translation," he said morosely, not wanting to offend his little friends. Old Bilbo had never quite forgiven Thranduil for the wine barrel incident, and his portrayal of the Elf-king was less than flattering.

The Hobbits continued reading to the boy, and just as Legolas began to wonder if Elves could die of humiliation, he was saved by a tall figure in the doorway. "Come," Aragorn said with a stern look, "Legolas needs to rest. Why don't you two show Bran around the city?" he reproached the Hobbits, shooing them out of the room. Legolas looked up at him with immense gratitude.

"How are you feeling, my friend?" Aragorn asked gently in Sindarin, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting a hand on his shoulder.

Legolas smiled. "Much better than a moment ago," he answered, eyes twinkling appreciatively.

Laughing gently, Aragorn gave him an affectionate pat on the shoulder, then stood up. "I shall let you rest; we need you to be well again soon," he said with a warm smile, taking his leave. Grateful for the peace and quiet, Legolas stared upwards and fell into a peaceful dreamlike state, his Elven mind wandering blissfully through the tranquil forests of old.

His healing meditation was once again interrupted, this time by a rich, deep, Dwarven voice. "Eh, lad," it said with tender gruffness. Startled, Legolas awoke to see his dear friend Gimli looking down upon him, tears in his eyes.

"Gimli?" he asked, sitting up and blinking at the Dwarf in disbelief.

"Easy, lad, you should be resting," Gimli urged gently, helping him to lie back against the pillows. "Ah, my dear friend, it is good to see you again," he cried tenderly. "Aragorn says you are healing quickly?" he asked, with a concerned look at the Elf's splinted leg.

"Gimli!" Legolas exclaimed joyfully, sitting up again despite his friend's protest. "What are you doing here? No, it is nothing serious, I shall be good as new before you know it," he insisted, embracing the Dwarf. "Oh, my dear Gimli, you are alive! Where have you been?" he asked, eyes filling with tears at the sight of his old friend.

"It is a long story," Gimli said dramatically, with a mysterious twinkle in his eyes. "One that I shall tell you about on our next journey together. For you have promised to show me the Old Forest by the Shire, and I intend to hold you to your word. I have had enough of mines and dungeons for a while; let us visit the forest next!"

**The End**

_Author's Note: I wrote three more 'Appendix' chapters a year after I finished this story... They're completely optional but read on if you want more! :)_


	10. Chapter 10

**APPENDIX**

_An Unexpected Arrival_

A Dwarf trudged along the winding streets of Minas Tirith, making his way slowly but deliberately up to the Citadel. His presence went unnoticed here, as it had throughout his entire journey from Mirkwood: a middle-aged Dwarf, travel-weary and poor, no doubt come in search of work as a Builder. Judging by his threadbare clothing, stooped posture, and plodding gait, no one would ever suspect that this unremarkable figure was none other than Gimli son of Gloin, hero of the War of the Rings and personal friend of King Elessar.

_Am I so changed?_ he wondered as he plodded wearily along. True, he had not grown any younger since his last visit, and his belt was buckled several notches tighter after spending six years in Thranduil's dungeon; but the slumped shoulders and wrinkled brow were caused more by grief than age, he knew.

He did not blame Thranduil for his harsh treatment. Six years in an Elvish prison was far too lenient a sentence for the crime he had committed, not just against Thranduil but all of Middle Earth. For it was Gimli's folly that had robbed the world of Prince Legolas of Eryn Lasgalen, the purest, sweetest soul ever to grace Arda.

He remembered that terrible day as if it were yesterday: Legolas' hesitancy upon entering the mine, and his own insistence that the Dwarvish runes were merely a warning, and that the words 'upon pain of death' referred to a Dwarven axe rather than a magical spell. Still, Legolas had entered cautiously, insisting that Gimli wait outside until he was certain it was safe.

In the end, it was not an axe or a spell, but Gimli's own foolishness that caused the collapse. He should have known better than to force open a jammed gate without barring the threshold first; but the timber supports had looked so strong, the walls rock-solid...

It had all happened too fast, with no time to react, but Gimli saw the events unfold as if in slow motion: the gate falling inward; a timber support collapsing overhead; a rain of dust and rock; a sickening creak as the entire structure gave way; Legolas' final, urgent warning, silenced mid-cry as he disappeared under a pile of boulders; Feeling a heavy thud against his back, and then falling, falling... Waking up in an enormous chamber piled high with sapphires, emeralds, and rubies... Then, slowly, the heartbroken realization that no amount of wealth could bring his friend back...

He had found a tunnel out of the mountain, and had gone straight to Thranduil with the tragic news, his sense of duty and shocked grief clouding his judgment. He had never once blamed the Elf King for sending him to the dungeon; if circumstances had been different, and anyone else had brought harm upon his dear friend, Gimli would have chosen a far swifter and more lethal sentence.

He did not know why Thranduil had suddenly decided to release him. The Dwarf had been instructed to return home and tell his King that their feud was over; but he mistrusted Thranduil, and knowing that Thorin was even more hot-tempered, he had decided to come straight to Aragorn to settle the matter.

Reaching the Citadel gate, he approached the guards. "I request audience with the King," he announced gruffly, with a polite nod of his head. "Private audience," he added, perhaps a bit too dramatically.

The guards looked at him, then at each other, amused. "I am sorry, Master Dwarf," one of them said with politely veiled indulgence, "The King is not disposed to receive visitors at this precise moment. Might I suggest that you schedule an appointment - "

"Give him this," Gimli interrupted brusquely, pulling off his ring and handing it to the guard. "Surely the King has a few minutes to spare for one of Durin's line," he said importantly, his Dwarven pride getting the better of him.

The guard looked at the ring doubtfully, then to his companion, who shrugged. "Wait here," he instructed Gimli, retreating through the tunnel to the Citadel. He returned five minutes later, bowing deeply. "King Elessar bids you welcome, and is honored to meet with a descendant of the House of Durin. Please follow me," he said respectfully, handing back the Dwarf's ring. Gimli followed him up to the Citadel, whereupon the guard led him into the palace and directly to Aragorn's private chamber. "The King will be with you shortly; please make yourself comfortable," the guard said politely, taking his leave.

As Gimli waited he grew increasingly nervous, suddenly regretting his pompous boldness and wishing he had shown a bit more humility, considering the unhappy news he bore. When the King entered the chamber, his Dwarven bravado failed him completely, and he bowed low on one knee. "Your Majesty," he said huskily, staring at the floor.

"Welcome, my friend," Aragorn said warmly, clasping the Dwarf's arm and helping him to his feet. "I am greatly honored that you have come to Minas Tir - " he broke off, shocked disbelief slowly giving way to a delighted grin. "Gimli!" he exclaimed happily, hugging the Dwarf fiercely. "Oh, my dear Gimli, you are alive! Where have you been? We thought - are you well?" he asked, suddenly peering at the Dwarf with deep concern in his grey eyes.

"Yes," Gimli said, brusquely wiping away his tears, only to fight a new onslaught as Aragorn embraced him again. "I have come - to apologize," he continued, "for what happened - for what happened to Leg - " he choked, unable to finish. He sniffed back the tears, resulting in a loud snorting sound.

Aragorn smiled at the Dwarf affectionately. "Ah, Gimli, how I have missed you! It is good to see you again, my friend," he said happily.

"And you as well," Gimli admitted guiltily, "Though I fear I bear ill news." With a questioning look, Aragorn took a seat on a velvet-cushioned chair, indicating for Gimli to do the same. Gimli sat, realizing suddenly how weary he was. "I fear it is my fault, what happened at the mine," he continued with difficulty. "Legolas tried to warn me, but - I was so certain it was safe," he explained sadly, shaking his head with deep regret and looking down at the floor.

"Gimli, do not blame yourself," Aragorn said gently. "It was an accident; everyone knows that. Besides, all's well that ends well, eh?" he said cheerfully. "I trust you have already been to the House of Healing?" he added with a hopeful smile.

"No, I am quite well, I assure you," Gimli said testily. Did he truly appear so old and feeble as that? And he was admittedly cross that Aragorn had not shown even a hint of sadness at the mention of their dear friend. "As I was saying - "

"You do not know," Aragorn interrupted quietly, his voice filled with compassion. Gimli looked up to see his friend smiling at him tenderly. "Legolas is here," the King said gently, getting up and placing a reassuring hand on the Dwarf's shoulder. "He is alive."

Gimli was too stunned to speak for a moment. "Alive?" he finally asked, looking up at his friend in disbelief. "Where is he?"

"In the House of Healing," Aragorn said. "Come, I will take you to him."

"The House of Healing?" Gimli repeated worriedly, following the King out of the chamber. "Is he ill?"

"Come, Gimli, surely you know him better than that," Aragorn reproached. "His leg was broken when the mine collapsed, and it healed badly, but the surgeons have reset it, and are expecting a quick recovery," he explained.

"Ah, poor lad," Gimli murmured, hurrying to keep up with Aragorn's long strides as they walked through the hallway. "But that is good news! When did he arrive?"

"Nine days ago," Aragorn said. "Even with a broken leg, he beat you home by more than a week," he chided the Dwarf with a playful wink.

"Nine days?" Gimli sputtered, indignant to think that he had lost yet another competition to the Elf, especially one so unusual as returning from the dead. "That is unheard of! Who does he think he - Nine days," he scoffed, feigning outrage but secretly delighted to learn that his friend had returned safely.

"And he's found himself a new little companion," Aragorn added, amused to see the Dwarf rekindling his old rivalry.

"A new - what's this?" Gimli asked, more curious than offended.

"Yes, he's about your height, perhaps a bit taller, and much better looking," Aragorn said calmly, as they entered the House of Healing. "Wait here, I will bring him out," he instructed the Dwarf, entering Legolas' chamber.

A moment later, Gimli was surprised and delighted to see his old friends Merry and Pippin, along with a strange human boy. "Gimli? What are you doing here? Where have you been?" the Hobbits asked all at once, hugging him happily.

Fielding an onslaught of questions from the inquisitive Hobbits, Gimli did not get a chance to ask about the boy before Aragorn returned. "You may go to him now," the King said quietly. "Come, let us give them some time alone," he admonished the others gently, escorting them out of the building.

Taking a deep breath, Gimli entered the room, and beheld a strange but familiar sight: a sleeping Elf, lying on his back and gazing upward, blue eyes wide open. His injured leg was bound and splinted, and his flaxen hair was cut strangely short, though braided neatly at the sides in the usual fashion; but his delicate features were unmistakable.

Aragorn had the truth of it, Gimli realized, his heart filling with joy: All's well that ends well. "Eh, lad," he said huskily, eyes welling over with tears as he gazed once again upon the noble countenance of his dear friend. All was well indeed.


	11. Chapter 11

**APPENDIX**

_The Shepherd of Amon Leth_

He stood alone on the hillside, tears glistening in the pale moonlight as he watched Aragorn retreat down the path to the village. Part of him yearned to call out to his friend, to speak with him again and tell him the truth; but he remained silent, knowing that it was for the best this way. "Farewell, Mellon nin," he whispered softly, "may the Valar protect you." His heart ached with regret as the king disappeared around a bend in the path and was gone.

Hanging his head sadly, he sat once again on the grassy slope, brushing away his tears and gazing out across the plains to the East. Ithil was but a sliver, and not even Earendil graced the horizon on this dark midsummer eve, but even so he could plainly see the amber grass swaying in the cool night breeze and every detail of the distant mountains beyond.

Men are blind, he realized soberly. Even Aragorn. He squinted, as if trying to see through his friend's eyes: a vast expanse of darkness; a few stars twinkling above; a humble shepherd on a hill, his features veiled in shadow. Sighing, he blinked away the dim vision, and looked out once again to the East, lost in thought.

It had been two years since he came to Amon Leth, but he did not feel the passage of time as Men did, and the grief in his heart had not lessened since that fateful day at the mine. He barely slept these days, and his dreams were plagued by memories too painful to recall: waking up in pitch blackness, entombed beneath a pile of rocks; calling desperately for his friend, to no avail; then, grief-stricken and numb with shock, crawling out from beneath the rubble and dragging himself slowly and painfully along the winding passageway out of the mountain.

He had emerged on the north side, a sheer cliff face covered in snow and ice, with a sickening drop to the rock-strewn ground a mile below. The wind blew fiercely, pelting him with sleet and ice. To the West the way was impassable, and Eastward was not much better, but he had no food or water, and knew he could not remain in the shelter of the mine. And so he had been forced to make his way slowly Eastward, toward Amon Leth.

His injured leg throbbed painfully at the memory, and he stretched it now, stiffly. It had been broken in the collapse, crushed beneath a fallen boulder, and the bones had set badly, fusing together and already beginning to heal before he was able to bind it properly. For once in his life he had regretted the quick healing ability of his kind.

The journey along the icy cliff face had been arduous, and he had been forced to walk on his injured leg, gritting his teeth and ignoring the pain as shards of bone tore into his muscles with every step. But finally he had reached Amon Leth in the middle of the night, collapsing to the ground and resting for a moment before crawling the last mile down the snowy hillside toward the faint glow of the shepherd's cottage.

Exhausted, frozen, weak from hunger and trembling with shock, he had knocked on the door, not caring that the Letharii mistrusted his kind; but the old shepherd had quickly helped him to the chair by the fire, bringing him a rough woolen blanket and offering him a bowl of hot gruel from the cookpot over the hearth.

The man had helped him into dry clothes, and then tied a length of ragged cloth around his head, with an apologetic glance over his shoulder. It was then that he had noticed the boy sleeping peacefully in the corner, so tender and innocent; and without knowing why, he had suddenly broken into a fond smile, his grieving heart filling with compassion and tears glistening in his eyes as he nodded to the shepherd, understanding his concern.

He had stayed with them that winter, planning to return home in the Spring when the Gap opened; but then the old shepherd had suddenly taken ill and died of pneumonia, and he had decided to stay at least through lambing season, for the boy's sake. He felt he owed the old man that much, and another month would make little difference; Gimli would still be dead when he returned home.

But a month had turned into two, then three, and he had found himself growing increasingly fond of the boy, and reluctant to leave him in the care of the villagers. Then Winter had returned, much sooner than expected, closing the Gap once again. The early frost had destroyed much of the fall harvest, and the Letharii suffered a famine worse than even the oldest of the villagers could remember. It was then that he had organized the revolt and led the attack on the castle, overthrowing the tyrant king Medhras and reclaiming the food stores for the starving villagers.

He had persuaded them to send for Aragorn that Spring, and had planned to return home with the King's party on the morrow; but now that the time was upon him, he found that he still could not leave. He knew the limits of his own strength, and his grief was still too recent; it would do no good to return home now, only to die of a broken heart. For a certainty Aragorn's healers could reset the bones in his leg, but in a strange way the physical pain helped to dull his grief, as well as his guilt that he had survived and Gimli had not.

And so he must stay, not only for Bran's sake, but for his very survival. The boy gave him a reason to go on, and brought joy and laughter to his grieving heart; and as much as it pained him to admit it, he loved him every bit as much as he had loved Gimli. His sorrow would lessen in time, and one day he would be ready to return home.

He sat on the hill until Earendil appeared above the Eastern mountains; then saying a quiet prayer, he rose stiffly to his feet and returned to the shepherd's cabin.


	12. Chapter 12

**APPENDIX**

_The Old Forest_

It was a perfect Summer morning: the birds sang happily in the treetops, squirrels hopped along the ground in search of acorns, a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, and a meandering stream gurgled cheerfully nearby. Legolas and Gimli sat on a log in the clearing, laughing and telling tales of their adventures together, while Merry and Pippin listened eagerly, interrupting now and then with a story of their own, to be met by gales of laughter.

Twenty yards away, Bran lay bleeding in a ditch, unbeknownst to the others.

"Tell them about the time you got caught stealing Farmer Maggot's carrots," Pippin giggled, and Merry launched into yet another story as Gimli and Legolas laughed cheerfully.

_I should not have come here,_ Bran realized, watching with detached fascination as the life force slowly drained from his body in tiny rivulets of red blood. How could Legolas do this to him? he wondered, confused and betrayed. After all they had been through...

"...and then he chased after us with his pitchfork," Merry continued, "So then Pippin - Pippin - " he broke off, laughing too hard to continue, and the others joined in, howling with delight.

_I should have stayed home..._ Tears filled his eyes as he pictured the grassy hillside of Amon Leth, the spring lambs frolicking happily amongst the wildflowers... But it was too late now.

"So I said - " Pippin broke in, "I said, 'it wasn't us, sir, it was a flock of giant rabbits, they were just here a moment ago; we chased them away,'" he laughed.

He felt very little pain, thankfully, but was sobered to see the surprising amount of blood that had soaked into his tunic. He knew that he did not have much time left, and that no one would come to his aid.

"A flock of giant rabbits," Merry giggled, "Leave it to Pippin to come up with something as ridiculous as that!"

With a sigh of resignation, Bran made a half-hearted attempt to wipe the bloodstain off his shirt sleeve, then got up and dejectedly resumed his task of picking blackberries. They would be expecting him back soon, and he had barely filled the bottom of his basket.

Even on Amon Leth, blackberry bushes were full of thorns; but here in the Old Forest they seemed to have a mind of their own, and thus far Bran had earned more scratches than berries for his efforts. But it wasn't the angry red lines all over his arms that hurt him so badly; it was his friend's words. So gentle, so apologetic... So condescending.

"Would you mind gathering some berries, Bran?" Legolas had asked, his blue eyes filled with their usual thoughtful tenderness. "There is something we must discuss privately," he added reluctantly, nodding toward Gimli and the Hobbits. Bran had nodded agreeably, knowing that all four of them were emissaries to the King; he understood that they had matters to discuss which were not of his concern.

He had not meant to eavesdrop, but they had made no effort to lower their voices, and Bran had caught the gist of their conversation. Legolas explained gravely to the others that he had seen wolves in the night, and that he feared the forest was more dangerous than they had known. It was then that Gimli had launched dramatically into a tale of his previous encounter with wolves, and the discussion had dissolved into laughter and storytelling.

Normally Bran loved to listen to their stories, but he was hurt that they had sent him off and forgotten all about him, today of all days... And it angered him that Legolas had tried to shield him from their fears concerning the wolves. He was not a child! Not any more... But apparently Legolas had forgotten about that as well.

He did not expect things to be the same as they had been with Curulath. Bran understood that Legolas needed to return to his old life, and in truth he was glad to see him feeling well again, and reunited with his old friends. All was as it should be, he knew; and yet he found himself longing for the days back on Amon Leth, when it had been just the two of them.

_You are not a child any more,_ he reminded himself, attacking the blackberry bush with stubborn resolve. The bush retaliated angrily, slicing a gash in the back of his hand, and Bran cursed quietly, muttering a word he had learned from the other boys in Minas Tirith. He wished suddenly that he had stayed in the city with his new friends rather than tagging along after Legolas and Gimli. The Hobbits would soon be leaving for the Shire, and Bran feared the return trip would be even more lonely without their presence.

The blackberry bush lashed out at him again, and he drew back, cursing and bringing his bloody hand to his mouth. "Stupid bush," he muttered angrily, kicking it.

"Bran!" He turned around to see Legolas staring at him, a shocked expression on his face.

"I'm sorry," Bran apologized, hanging his head. He should have known better than to use foul language within a mile of the Elf's big pointy ears, he realized glumly.

But Legolas' expression was one of concern rather than anger. "When I said 'gather some berries' I did not mean - " he broke off, taking Bran's bleeding hands into his, dismayed by the scratches covering his arms. "Oh, Little One, I am sorry," he said gently. "I should have warned you about Old Forest blackberries; you are lucky it was not worse! I thought you were picking blueberries, they are much safer... Come, let us see to those wounds," he apologized.

"I'm all right," Bran grumbled, wresting his arm from Legolas' delicate grasp, and feeling a little stupid as they walked back through a huge patch of the most perfect blueberries he had ever seen. "I'm not a baby," he added sullenly.

At that, Legolas smiled. "I know," he said affectionately, putting an arm around Bran's shoulders. "Come, I have something to show you," he said with a mysterious wink. Curious, Bran followed him back to the clearing, noticing suddenly that it had grown very quiet. He looked up at Legolas, unsure of what was happening, but the Elf merely smiled.

The campsite was deserted when they arrived. Bran looked around, wondering where everyone had gone. Then he noticed several strange objects laid carefully atop the fallen log: an Elven bow and quiver of arrows, smaller than those Legolas used; an ornate dagger with a jeweled hilt; a little leather-bound book; a collection of feathers; and a small black bottle. _How curious..._

Suddenly, Merry and Pippin jumped up from behind the log, followed by Gimli. "Surprise!" they yelled excitedly, hugging the stunned boy with great enthusiasm.

"Happy Birthday, Bran," Legolas said, tousling his hair playfully, his blue eyes twinkling with affection. Then, seeing the boy's confused expression, he grinned mischievously. "Did you think we had forgotten?"

Bran grinned, suddenly feeling sheepish for his earlier attitude. They hadn't forgotten after all; they had even brought him presents!

"Bran! You're bleeding," Pippin exclaimed, noticing the scratches on his arms.

"Yes, I fear he encountered one of the greatest dangers of the Old Forest," Legolas explained sadly, going to his pack for some medicine.

Merry and Pippin looked at each other, dismayed. "Blackberries, eh?" Merry said sympathetically.

Bran nodded, still grinning happily, as Legolas applied a soothing ointment to his cuts. "One of the greatest dangers?" he asked the Elf, surprised. "What about the wolves?"

"What wolves?" Legolas answered with a playful wink. Bran smiled with relief and gratitude, realizing that the secret council had merely been a diversionary tactic.

"Come, look at your presents," Pippin said eagerly, and Bran went closer to the log, scarcely believing his eyes. The bow was from Legolas; the jeweled dagger from Gimli; and the book and feathers from Merry and Pippin. He admired his gifts, teary-eyed, and thanked them each in turn; but when he opened the book to read it, he stared at the blank pages, frowning.

"There are no words," he said, confused, then broke into a grin. "It is a magical book!" he realized, delighted. He had heard stories of magical objects, but never dreamed of owning one himself. "How do I make the writing show up?" he wondered, holding it up to the light and turning it upside down.

"Yes, it is magical," Merry said solemnly, as the others struggled to hide their amusement. "You will learn of its secret after sundown," he added mysteriously.

"Come," Legolas said cheerfully, "Let us try out that new bow!"

Thanking the others once again for his gifts, Bran picked up his new Elven bow, slung the quiver of arrows over his shoulder, and followed Legolas eagerly into the forest. "Good luck, Bran!" they called after him, and he turned and waved happily, still grinning from ear to ear.

They ran together through the forest, Legolas stepping lightly and making no sound, and Bran stomping noisily on every twig and fallen branch in his path._ Maybe with a few centuries' practice I'll get the hang of this,_ he thought ruefully, struggling just to keep up with the Elf. Presently Legolas slowed his pace, motioning for Bran to be silent; then he stopped, hiding behind a tree and nodding toward a thicket of bushes nearby. Bran followed his gaze, then nodded quietly, seeing his target.

A white rabbit hopped through the forest, intent on his quest. Nothing could stop him now; victory was at hand! For he was Sir Sniffsalot of Nyquilondë, and soon all of Middle Earth would bow to his evil will...

Silently, Bran drew his bow, aiming carefully; then at Legolas' signal, he let loose his arrow...

_THWACK!_ Thus passed Sir Sniffsalot into the Halls of Manicweirdos.

Unaware that he had just saved Middle Earth from certain doom, Bran cheerfully collected his quarry and returned proudly with Legolas to the campsite. With great enthusiasm he used his new Dwarven dagger to skin the rabbit; then Merry and Pippin helped him to roast it over the fire according to a special Hobbit recipe.

After dinner, when the sun had finally set, he begged the Hobbits to teach him the secret of his magical book. "Does it have something to do with the feathers, or the bottle of magical potion?" he asked eagerly. Now that he had time to think about it, he realized that the small black bottle must contain a potion of some kind. The feathers he was not so sure about...

"Yes," said Pippin, "Here, I will show you how it works." Dipping the pointy end of the feather into the magical potion, he wrote on the first page: Dear Bran, Happy 13th Birthday! Love, Merry & Pippin.

Bran read the words slowly, aloud, then grinned with delight. "How did you do that?" he asked, amazed. "I want to try!"

"There is nothing magical about the book, or the feathers, or even the ink," Merry explained, taking the book and writing on the second page. "But all together, in the hands of the right person, they are magical, for you can write any story you want. But first you must learn your letters!" When he was finished, he handed the book back to Bran, explaining to him the letters of the alphabet.

Slowly and carefully, Bran copied Merry's letters, until the Hobbits were satisfied with his efforts. Then, with their help, one letter at a time, he began to write his story:

_Once upon a time, high in the grassy foothills of Amon Leth..._

* * *

><p>"...and they all lived happily ever after," he finished softly, closing the small leather-bound book and setting it on the bedside table.<p>

"Is it a true story?" Curulath asked with a sleepy smile on his little face.

"Yes, it is," his father answered, tucking him into bed and kissing him on the forehead. "Now go to sleep. You too, Eldarion," he admonished gently. "And no more talking; if you are cranky tomorrow your father will not let you sleep over here again," he warned. "Come, Gwythara," he said, ushering his daughter into her own bed. "Sweet dreams, Little Ones," he whispered, closing the door behind him.

Nodding to the guards outside the door, he walked out to the hillside and sat on the grassy slope, looking out to the East. The cottage was always well protected when the young Prince was visiting, and his wife had gone to bed early that evening; but Bran was not tired yet. Looking up at Earendil, he wondered once again where Legolas was, praying for his friend's safety and hoping against hope that he was still alive.

It had been over a year since his last letter had arrived from Edoras, saying that he and Gimli were journeying through Fangorn and Lorien on their way to Mirkwood; but they had never arrived at their destination. Bran had joined Aragorn's search party, and Thranduil had sent out scouts as well, but they could find no trace of Legolas or Gimli in the vast reaches of the forest, and finally the search had been called off.

Hearing a stifled giggle coming from the cottage, Bran sighed, then rose stiffly, wincing slighly from the pain in his side. As a child he had dreamt of becoming a great war hero, and indeed he had spent several years in Aragorn's service before his career had been cut short by a Haradrim's blade. The wound did not pain him overly much, but he had been forced to give up fighting, and so he had turned to the only other occupation he knew.

Aragorn had urged him to stay at the palace, insisting that he was family; but Bran longed for the comforts of home, and had built a cottage on the hillside just outside Minas Tirith, where he had taken up shepherding once again. He walked back to the cottage now, smiling to hear the happy voices of the children but knowing that he must be stern with them; it was well past their bedtime.

The commotion was worse than he had imagined: before he reached the cottage, Eldarion burst through the door, slipped past the guards, and ran crashing into Bran. "Whoa, Little One," he said, picking up the Prince like a sack of potatoes. "Where do you think you're going?"

"He was trying to tickle me," Eldarion squealed, delighted.

"Who?" Bran asked, carrying him back inside. Then he stopped, staring in disbelief.

The intruder stood in the middle of the room, holding a giggling Curulath upside-down by the ankles, with Gwythara hanging from his neck. "There you are," Legolas said cheerfully, his blue eyes twinkling as he greeted Bran fondly. He let go of Curulath, and the boy did a tumbling somersault onto the thick rug. "They have gotten big," he said proudly, setting Gwythara down and stroking her hair affectionately.

"Legolas!" Bran exclaimed, hugging his old friend, tears in his eyes. "You are home! Oh, I have missed you," he cried, holding him tight. "Is Gimli back as well?"

"Yes, he is still talking with Aragorn," Legolas replied, returning his fervent embrace. "You look well," he said softly, eyes glistening as he looked at Bran lovingly. "I am sorry for waking the children; I was hoping to arrive before their bedtime," he apologized.

"No, I will forgive you. Just this once," Bran grinned. "Where have you been?" he asked, relieved and delighted to see his friend home again, safe and in one piece.

Legolas smiled mysteriously. "That, I am afraid I cannot tell you," he replied, "For I am sworn to secrecy."

"Sworn to secrecy? By whom?" Bran laughed, trying to imagine what sort of trouble the Elf and Dwarf had gotten themselves into this time.

"By creatures whose wrath I hope never to incur," Legolas answered with a rueful grin. "And Gimli will not speak of it either!" he warned. "But I bring glad tidings," he added, eyes twinkling happily. "We have found the Entwives!"

**The End** (Really this time!)


End file.
